


My God, What a Lovely Sin

by dysphorie



Series: Kinktober 2019 [3]
Category: Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Cutting, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Play, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Kinktober 2019, Knifeplay, Lack of Communication, M/M, Marking, RACK - Freeform, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Scarification, Topspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-12-01 19:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20879105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysphorie/pseuds/dysphorie
Summary: “We were meant to be togetherNow die and fucking love meWe were meant to hurt each otherNow die and fucking love me”Kinktober 2019. 03: knife play





	My God, What a Lovely Sin

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working from a few different lists of prompts now, this one came from tumblr user @kinktober2019. The previous two days were from @pabstbeerpussy's list. From now on I'll try to remember to mention which prompt list a specific prompt is from. No promises though lol
> 
> This is also part of the "4/7" series!

Jim should’ve known when he got home to a dark house that something was up. He never leaves the house completely dark if he’s out, it’s just one of the ticks of his OCD. Someone’s turned the light off and they’ve turned it off on purpose to rattle him. It’s working. Other than that, everything’s as expected, so he does his counting exercises and dumps his shit in the hall, dragging his weary bones up the stairs to bed.

He barely bothers getting undressed before collapsing onto the soft downy surface on his belly, just shucking off his jeans, leaving everything else on. Doing anything else requires energy he just doesn’t have. Eyelids drooping, Jim turns his face so he’s not actively suffocating himself in the pillow, takes a deep breath, and tries to relax.

Relaxation is important.

What little oxygen was left in his lungs is squeezed out when a solid, heavy weight drops down onto his back. He tries to squirm but he can’t move because the body on his back’s too heavy and he can’t get decent leverage to push up. There’s muddy black boots by his head, black-clad legs pinning his arms to his sides. Fear rises in his gut when big hands push down on his hips, pushing them into bed. For a moment he’s too terrified to scream, to say anything, and when he opens his mouth to try it dies in his throat with a rattly wheeze as a cold metal point presses into the small of his back.

He doesn’t need to be told to stay still. Jim couldn’t move if he tried, frozen in fear. The weight shifts a little. Jim can smell dirt and musty clothes and it makes him picture shallow graves in pitch-black forests and he can taste the soil when he breathes. There’s no way he can repress the shudder it sends through him, or the yelp he lets out when the metal digs in further. The skin’s not broken but Jim knows it’s close, and he bites his lip til he tastes blood. When he stills, the pressure releases again a little. 

Then it’s back, a long line of cold against his spine, not painful but there’s still a dull pressure. The spine of the knife. It runs down his back, catching in the elastic waistband of his boxers. There’s no words for the horror that fills him as the knife keeps sliding, sliding between the cleft of his ass. He can feel the edge of the blade, it’s not cutting into him. Yet. It keeps going, and Jim’s brain swims trying to work out what the fuck is happening and trying not to panic while there’s a knife literally lying along the back of his balls, but with a jerk it shoves forward, stabbing through the fabric of his underwear. There’s sweat beading on the back of his neck and it builds with a sigh of relief, but it’s brief. The blade’s pulled back again faster than before, and fingers briefly stroke his ass as they dip into the hole in the fabric and _ pull _.

The ripping sound is brutal and the way the fabric pulls and digs into his groin really fucking hurts but he manages to stay quiet, and he prays the knife is nowhere near his skin while the hands pull and haul until his boxers are in tatters and his lower half is naked. 

  
  


_ Mick has to take a deep breath before he goes any further. They’ve done this before, they know what they’re doing, but there’s still always that fear that something will go wrong. That Jim will jerk, or fucking sneeze or something, and Mick will end up castrating him and that’s not gonna be a good time for anyone. He doesn’t stop though, and his heart swells with pride a little when Jim stays perfectly still, perfectly silent, when Mick cups one peachy cheek, digging his fingernails in a little and pulling to expose Jim’s most private place. The blush of shame makes Jim’s whole body hot, and Mick can feel it even through his clothes, sweat starting to soak through. _

_ Before picking the knife back up, he pushes between Jim’s legs with his other hand, forcing them open a few inches. Just enough to give him decent access. The flesh quivers the tiniest bit under him. It’s adorable. Now really isn’t the time for Mick to be musing on how cute Jim’s butt is, but he can’t help himself. _

_ Knife back in hand, he touches the tip to the furthest point of Jim’s scrotum he can reach and he drags it up that skin seam, being especially firm as it passes over his perineum. If he did that with the sharp edge down, he’d open Jim up like a chicken breast. The image flashes in his brain and he shudders, stiffening further in his pants. There’s a quiet whine behind him when the tip of the blade dips into the pucker of Jim’s hole. Mick smiles. _

  
  


_ Fuck _, this is Jim’s favourite bit. It scares him so fucking much, knowing that if either of them twitched even a millimetre then Jim would be cut wide open. Jim knows exactly how sharp the knife is because he sharpened it himself. Bought and had it engraved with their numbers, four and seven twined together, and gave it to Mick himself as a way of telling him just how much Jim trusts him, that he’s giving Mick everything and all of him because he knows Mick will do the right thing. Jim is Mick’s, body and soul. It’s that simple.

He _ has _ hurt him though. Because Mick always pushes Jim’s boundaries. Not that badly, nothing that would raise questions, but enough to make Jim cry out, tear up, make Mick want to coddle him and kiss it all better. That’s his other favourite bit. 

That tip traces lazy circles around his hole and he’s just starting to melt into the bed when there it is, that sudden flash of pain because Mick’s not looking at what he’s doing, he’s craned back to look at the side of Jim’s face. _ This _ is how he ends up hurt. Jim doesn’t mind, mostly because Mick finds it inexplicably hot, demonstrated by the volume of his gasp, and the way he throws his leg back over Jim’s back to kneel beside him and drop his head down, tonguing the blood from the wound.

  
  


_ He’s not going to make a big thing of it, but Mick just has to get his mouth on Jim’s ass, has to lick away the tiny bead of blood. He’s already getting carried away and they’ve barely even started, and if Mick’s not careful he’s going to lose his thread. He needs to keep up the menace, the threat, not devolve into just ruining Jim with his dick rather than his mind. _

_ Pulling back he seizes Jim by the hips and tshirt, hauling him over onto his back. His green eyes stare up at him, round and genuinely fearful and slightly glassy, that pouty bottom lip covered in blood that’s run down his chin, just a little. Mick feels his dick start to leak, but takes deep, measured breaths, staring Jim in the eye. _

  
  


Jim’s hands twitch, desperate to reach down and cover himself up; he feels more exposed than if he were completely naked. That’d make Mick angry though.

His hands _ just _ manage to cross over each other before Mick’s got them both held in one of his own, hauling them up to press above Jim’s head. Their faces are inches apart now, and Jim gulps in fear. Mick’s eyes are narrowed, mean, and he’s gripping hard enough onto Jim’s wrists to bruise, and he can see the haze fall over Mick’s face. The one that means he’s falling into that headspace that makes Jim legitimately scared that one day, Mick will lose control and hurt him. Badly.

He loves it. He knows he’s fucked up when Mick yanks his legs apart again, picking the knife up and running it up between his asscheeks again. _ Fuck fuck fuck, _ it’s edge _ down _ now, that razor sharp surface pressing against his perineum, his balls, up the side of his dick. He wants to rut up into it, wants to feel the bite of the metal on his skin. What he gets it Mick flicking the knife, holding it sideways to press the flat of the blade hard against Jim’s dick. Oh the pressure, it’s amazing, and Jim’s body is _ begging _ to thrust up into it, but he knows that’ll just send the blade straight into his dick. He shivers, whines, starts to come apart. 

  
  


_ His boy’s starting to come apart. Mick loves taking Jim apart. Deconstructing him piece by piece until Jim isn’t Jim anymore but just a mindless, twitching mess that doesn’t know his own name and can’t do anything but drool. He feels dizzy, his brain’s getting cloudy. The urge to hurt Jim rises like smoke in his lungs and it’s heady and addictive. When he shifts the blade to press against Jim’s lower belly, he can’t resist it anymore. _

_ Starting at one narrow hipbone he digs in the tip, drags it straight across to the other. Deep enough to bleed, shallow enough to disappear in time, hard enough to make Jim gasp and sob. He doesn’t clean it up straight away, lets the blood run in narrow rivulets. Too busy letting go of Jim’s hands to grab the hem of his tshirt, poking a hole and dragging the knife through it to give him something to grab so he can rip it. Straight up the middle, baring Jim’s thin frame. Panting he straddles Jim’s hips, ignoring the way he cries, commanding Jim to keep his hands above his head. It’s the first time they’ve broken breath to each other all night. Jim just sniffs, nods. _

  
  


It burns. It hurts so much that Jim knows he’s just going to make things worse because he can’t stay completely still anymore. He’s still barely moving, but it’s enough for a mistake to happen._ Another _ mistake. His hole’s on fire. Mick’s dragging the knife aimlessly around Jim’s soft belly, and he has to bite his lip again to resist sucking it in, pulling away from the blade. It’ll just make things worse. He can tell Mick’s getting further and further away, he really needs to be careful right now.

_ Slice, slice, _ the knife scores his ribs. Pain swells as the blood bubbles up, sending fresh tears streaming down Jim’s temples. His dick throbs where it’s trapped between him and Mick’s crotch, and Mick must’ve felt it because he growls and grinds down against him. Another slice, this time from breastbone to bellybutton. He’s so hot and the sweat is running into the cuts, making them sting and and burn. It’s so fucking bad and it’s so fucking good, and Jim dopily things about how he’s the luckiest guy in the world that he doesn’t just have someone willing to do this to him, but someone who _ gets off _ on doing it to him. Jim’s tried in the past but it was always too awkward when someone was unaffected by their actions. Jim likes his partners to be present and part of the scene, not just inflictors of pain.

  
  


_ His cock is so hard it hurts, and when he rolls down against Jim he smudges the rivers of blood across Jim’s abdomen with his pants. It’s not a lot of blood but it looks it, and the sight and smell sends Mick all the way. All he can think of is “Hurt Jim, fix Jim, hurt Jim, love Jim,” over and over and over. Jim is Mick’s fucking reason for being, he sets his soul on fire and makes him feel invincible. He can feel Jim’s erection firm against the underside of his dick and it’s amazing. He bears down harder, rumbles deep in his throat as he grinds back and forth. _

  
  


The pushing and pulling of Mick’s motion is making the wound on Jim’s stomach open further and bleed more, and it’s mixing with the precome leaking against his belly from his drooling dick. Jim’s completely given up on staying still and relaxed, head ground back into the pillows and mouth open to keen, high and loud. He fucks up against Mick, ignoring the pangs of pain.

Suddenly Mick’s over Jim, hand firm on his shoulder and pushing down on him hard. He doesn’t stop thrusting as he brings the knife up to Jim’s chest and starts carving. All Jim can do is howl, pain and pleasure mixing together and sending him right over the edge. Mick turns and swirls the blade, right on the centre of Jim’s chest, and Jim can’t tell what it is because he’s too busy sobbing and jerking as he comes and comes. It splashes up his stomach, further up still, hitting all those spots of broken skin, coating him in swirls of milky red. 

  
  


_ His own pleasure completely forgotten, Mick’s attention zeros straight in on Jim. Nothing else exists apart from the sight before him right now. It’s like Jim coming undone ripped Mick right back to reality, and he sees what he’s done. It’s beautiful, all the different colours standing out against Jim’s pale skin like a piece of art. It is art, truly. He places a hand gently on the last piece he carved, Jim’s coming down to cover them tight. The rise and fall of Jim’s chest, the thumping of his heart, the warmth of his blood bring Mick down til he no longer feels spaced out and frantic but calm, protective, satisfied. Jim came, Mick is happy. _

_ He lifts his hand, making Jim shift his hands, and traces the design he cut with a trembling finger. It’s not very big, and he knows Jim is going to love it. A couple of lines, an arch, almost like a letter M with a devil’s tail. Scorpio, Mick’s symbol. He knows Jim will love it because Mick has one very similar in the same place, an arch and a few straight lines that make up the symbol for Libra. Jim’s mark. When he looks up Jim’s still crying but he’s smiling, and reaching up to pull Mick down for a long, sigh-filled kiss. _

“You with me, baby?” Jim asks when they pull apart, keeping his voice low and soft. Mick’s eyes have lost that glazed, far-away look, and he pushes his sweaty hair back from his face, stroking his cheek with the backs of his fingers. He looks as wrung out as Jim feels, but they’re both definitely coming back down to earth. Mick kisses the tears off Jim’s cheeks, leaning down so they can hold each other properly. Jim doesn’t care about the mess pressed between them right now. He’s got all that matters to him right here in his arms.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> dysphorie-by-the-sea.tumblr.com


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